


Take These Lies and Make Them True

by Mythmaker



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Bullying, But Also Multiple POVs, But More Than You'd Hope, Cinnamon Roll Katsuki Yuuri, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fanboying from Viktor, Fanboying from Yuuri, Heavy Katsuki Yuuri POV, In more ways than one, Katsuki Yuuri's Inner Deadpan Monologue, Katsuki Yuuri's Stamina, Long-Haired Katsuki Yuuri, Lowkey Kastudon Fanboi Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, Misunderstandings, Much Self-Deprecation, Multi, Oblivious Katsuki Yuuri, Occasional Self-Loathing, Oh god why am I doing this, Ounces of Smut, Please Send Help, Pole Dancing Origin Story, Slow Burn Yo, Summer Camp, Typical Fanning All Over the Place, Unreliable Narrator, Viktor is pretty darn thirsty no matter what I do, Yuuri is a prickly pear, bad ones, i didn't mean to fanfic, it's been too long since I've fanfic'd, less angst than you'd think, on occasion, thicc af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythmaker/pseuds/Mythmaker
Summary: There was a look on his face that screamedplease leave me alone I am the biggest cactus do not engageand simultaneously the ever-recognizable fanboy flailing ofoh my god it’s really him. The mental exuberance of such conflicting emotions turned the Japanese boy’s face a bright red, but the color wasn’t ugly against his pale skin. He made a noise that Viktor was certain stunned a few smaller animals.For the first time in his life, he found that adorable.…What was wrong with him.Or:Wherein Yuuri’s anxiety is such a hell beast he never even attempts JSF certification but skates like he should be, his family is amazing, and Viktor isn’t playing catch-up.And hopefully neither is Yuuri.OR:Wherein our cute idiots meet long before a strange April snow fall in Hasetsu, and instead at a summer camp in NYC. Because I needed this in my life I guess.





	1. Push and Pull

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't done this in ages, please be kind.
> 
> Musical notations will be at the end, as well as a bit of backstory for stuff I chose. I find it impossible to write this without playing the music for everyone's routines in my head, and I thought I'd give people an idea of what I had in mind.
> 
> Also if anyone knows the timeline better than me, please for the love of all that is holy tell me if I'm flubbing.

_Oh I have thought of greater things_  
_All the things that fly by me_  
_All the lives that I could lead_  
_Maybe I was born for that_  
_Or maybe I was first to last_  
_You could call it cowardice  
_ _But leave me to my studied bliss_

 

Strands of hair were getting in his eyes, long enough to tickle his face but short enough to escape any tie up he attempted. It wasn’t too long, he thought absently. He’d never had longer hair before, but there was a certain apathy (mixed with worry) about going to a hair dresser to deal with it just now. He bit his cheek, faint annoyance on his features, before he swiped a hand over his forehead to clear away sweat.

“Again,” Minako’s voice was muted in the dance studio. There was no bite to her tone. Strict she was, but not harsh. Loud on occasion, but that was usually when she was excited, not mad. Or drinking. “I’m glad we’re working your _tour en l'air_ , though I’m not sure why.”

She spoke over the quick padding of feet and swish of a body flying through the air. Thudding to a stop, Yuuri Katsuki turned his head with a shy smile. “Aah, I just wanted to get it right.”

Minako laughed. “As if you don’t put in enough practice as is!” She opened her mouth a bit before she paused and shook her head. “You know I never mind helping you with private lessons…but I do wish you’d join a class sometime. Gotta build up that confidence, and I could use good publicity for this place.”

“Minako,” Yuuri _did not_ whine. It was just a bit of something in his throat.

“I’m only half-teasing,” his mentor grinned, though the corners of her eyes indicted a pang of regret. Yuuri wished he hadn’t noticed. “But I shouldn’t enable your shyness.” Of course she would though. It hadn’t been through tears that twelve year old Yuuri begged her to stop trying to enter him into competitions. Ah, no, he did not beg. The request had been made with cold steel in his tone, though oddly enough the blades of his voice were not pressed against her neck. Afterwards, she hadn’t pried. She wanted to. But she couldn’t bring herself.

They continued for a while in productive silence, though the boy doing flips in mid-air despite the heavy, cold lump settling in his stomach.

“Yuuri,” Minako interrupted, her eyes slightly clouded with worry, still gazing at her phone. “D’you mind if we switch to the rink?”

While she didn’t have to supervise him as much anymore, Minako was often the only one who was allowed to watch him practice. For safety reasons. Even with the stubborn fear clinging to his every decision, Yuuri knew better than to attempt new jumps without his mentor present.

“Sure!” And there was the bubbling enthusiasm of someone in love.

Minako smiled.

 

 

 

 

Mari didn’t hang out with her brother when they were littler. There had been too big an age gap for either of them to feel comfortable until, well, now, really. He was eighteen, and she wasn’t too far out of that bracket to remember what it was like. Ups and downs were a lot easier to manage these days.

She fully intended to take over the family business. Despite Yuuri’s insistence that he wanted to stay in Japan, there was a part of her brain that simply couldn’t imagine him settling down here. Not for a while anyway. Mari didn’t have the words to describe how or why she felt this was true, but regardless. She was a simple woman, who simply trusted her gut. And her gut told her Yuuri was meant for better things than an old, run down onsen in a town hardly anyone could remember.

Exasperation hit her then. He was an anxious ball of stress at least 90% of the time around other people (especially anyone he didn’t know), but the kid could do so many things so well! It wasn’t her imagination, she swore. It wasn’t bias either, not with Minako practically crying to the family six years ago when Yuuri put his tiny foot down about competitions (ballet, dance, music, skating, Christ she could go on). It was funny to her, and surprising. He wanted to be the best so much it hurt, mentally and physically – so how could he know for sure without competing? Wasn’t that a tad arrogant?

Mari hadn’t asked him. She felt like she should at some point. He would be too scared of her not to give her a straight answer (and she wouldn’t let him run away either).

“Hey sis.”

Speak of the devil. Oh, who was she kidding: her bro was an angel. “You’re back early,” she commented, blowing smoke straight up into the air. It was still a habit after all these years, but she’d cut back quite a lot.

“We went to the rink for a bit, but sensei was checking in on a younger student,” he explained. “I just practiced on the ice, but I wanted to give them some privacy. You know the littlest Saotome?”

“Ah…yeah, I remember her.”

“Tried to do a complicated step sequence, slipped and hit her head. Nothing serious, but she got a scolding for doing that without supervision.” Her brother smiled, though it was sheepish. “I can relate.”

“You sure should, you maniac,” she responded without heat, a smirk creeping onto her face. “You’re damn lucky you didn’t end your love for skating eight years ago.” A tiny cut of real worry, but it was gone too quick.

Or not, she thought as she watched Yuuri’s face crumple slightly. “I can’t help it. And besides, it’s the only way to get better at my jumps.” Videos upon videos of other _gold_ -winning figure skater routines. Hours upon days upon years of solitary practice. No matter how his weight fluctuated, the kid could _work_. Mari had – no, still envied that perseverance. It was nearly a duty to him at this point. She just couldn’t understand why he threw himself into it so.

An enigma, that’s what he was, Mari thought idly. Shy, yet so full of molten determination – and also stubborn as a pig. And sometimes really, really dumb. “It’s not the only way Yuuri,” she said, soft and firm. “You know that.”

Big sisters were supposed to land the hard truths, right? She snuffed out her cigarette and turned into the main entrance, leaving Yuuri to himself.

 

 

 

He was twelve years old when he first envisioned of a world that would let him skate all his way to the top, competing with the best there were. Well, one particular skater anyway. But the privilege remained. He barely dared to dream it, but the promise had ensnared him so completely he began to search out local competitions to test himself. His parents were supportive, but Yuuri didn’t want them to invest too much, just in case. …Just in case. So he worked on his own to buy his own equipment, to train before school and after homework (and anywhere in between).

About ten minutes after his somewhat disastrous attempt at a routine and he was dry heaving into a toilet, barely able to breathe.

There had always been a sense of tension whenever he had to do anything in front of a crowd, from anything as big as skating to deciding what to eat at a restaurant. And on occasion he’d help out in the kitchen, break something, and end up crying in a ball on the floor. He couldn’t really control that part of himself.

In truth, he had never told anyone, but he was fairly sure his family understood. They never talked about it. Yuuri had no idea it could feel this bad. Denial had been his location for years, apparently: it had only gotten worse. The moment he’d taken his first step onto the ice, his legs trembled and his vision blurred even more than usual. Almost every second of practice seemed to disappear – all that addictive confidence he conjured whenever he skated vanished in moments.

He had fumbled pretty much the entire thing before fleeing the rink in abject terror and burning shame. And now his flesh was pricking and stinging, his throat was closing and causing his sobs to turn into chokes and gasps, and he could only hear the rushing sound of blood in his ears.

His mother finds him, but doesn’t, to her credit, freak out in unison. She simply holds him tight and lets him breathe into her shoulder, the hyperventilation calming as they sat together. If it had been anyone else, he would have screamed at them to leave him alone.

“I didn’t know Yuu-chan,” she said, her own voice tremulous. “You should have told me…”

It was easy to decide then, that he would never try competing again. To stave off this horrible feeling of drowning on land, to steer clear of letting anyone down (himself included), and to keep what he loved to do all to himself. No one would miss him anyway.

For six years, it felt like the right thing to do. He went to school, he did well there and it helped him avoid having to take medication. Taking it had ruined pretty much anything he did enjoy by painting his world greyscale, so it was an obvious choice to avoid meds. He practiced various calming exercises, some of which included taking to the dance studio, or more often, the ice rink. Yuuko never even charged him; the price was only to know that Yuuri was safe. And to sneak around, catching glimpses of his incredibly private performances. They were basically family – Yuuri didn’t have the heart to tell them to go away. Nor was he in any position to demand anything, goodness, they were letting him in for free.

… Truth be told, he didn’t expect his decision to start weighing on him.

Mari’s words sunk in a bit too deep, he realized. There was a surge of that familiar drive, the yearning to compete, but he quashed it.

He wasn’t worthy of that desire.

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov was a name that anyone who knew Yuuri, knew. Yuuko, especially – since she was the one who introduced him to poor, awestruck Yuuri when he was twelve.

There were moments she regretted her decision (so many posters; so many recordings; _so many_ gushing conversations over technique).  Yet today was not that day.

Earlier that month, Yuuko had approached a small group – Takeshi, the Katsuki’s (minus a certain teenager), Minako Okukawa and her own family – and introduced them to her Grand Plan of getting Yuuri the recognition (and critique, she thought worriedly) he sorely deserved. As familiar with the world of figure skating as she was, she knew he could only get so far on his own, and she was not going to continue letting her best friend self-sabotage. Her proclamation was met with both concern and skepticism.

_“But Yuuko, we can’t push him too much,” Hiroko had insisted, but the lines of her face seemed to call forth hope rather than reluctance. “What if he doesn’t want this?”_

_“Then we’ll have to accept it as it is. This is just an offer,” a temptation rather, Yuuko thought as Minako spoke. “Really, it’s his last chance to try. If he still doesn’t agree, then we know for sure that he’s made up his mind.”_

_Yuuko had also heard rumors about the camp this summer, but she didn’t want to jinx the possibility of Viktor Nikiforov training at the same rink as Yuuri. If she mentioned it, and the Olympic-Gold-Medal-Winner-Also-Yuuri-Katsuki’s-Celebrity-Crush wasn’t present, she’d never be able to handle Yuuri’s disappointment. Nor her own._

It could be said that she had been building up to her decision for a long time. It wasn’t like she could call an intervention on behalf of her best friend; there was no forcing Yuuri Katsuki into anything. She knew people underestimated the quiet obedience in Yuuri for weakness. But meek wasn’t weak, as far as she was concerned.

A part of her felt terrible for sneaking around, breaking Yuuri’s very unspoken privacy rule on the rink. She also felt bad for cajoling both her parents and his into this scheme. She supposed it was good that _mature_ adults were on her side here, but she still felt like some kind of scheming devil.

Sighing, she started to way out to the rink.

Besides, she told herself, a wary hopefulness beginning to rise up in her, Yuuri was very competent. He was graduating at a decent level and could go into anything he wanted to. This was just them offering him a chance, and it was possibly the last one they could give.

A spark of inspiration hit her as she looked at her phone.  Yes…a little boost of popularity and mystery couldn’t hurt either, could it? Thoughts of promise fluttered through her mind: it wasn’t like he had a strong online presence after all. She had to force him onto Facebook and Twitter and she doubted he had posted anything on either as of yet.

“Hey Yuuri?”

She didn’t say it very loudly. As a result, she could keep watching her friend dance against the ice.

All regret and worry fled her, her eyes softening against the rare sight of a Yuuri who was perfectly collected, calm, and thrumming with joy. Sometimes she swore he had multiple personalities or something. On-Ice Yuuri was ethereal, cool and self-assured. Off-Ice Yuuri was either embarrassed or consistently self-effacing. Every version of him seemed to be considerate though, so that was a relief. She hadn’t seen a drunk Yuuri of course, but she wondered if he’d take after his mother or father (or sister) – all but one of whom were notoriously boisterous. …Wow, she’d pay to find out.

Shaking her head to clear the mental image, Yuuko gave herself a few more minutes before she gathered the rest of her courage. “Hey! Yuuri!”

The eighteen year old twirled slowly to a stop, and peered up and out through his bangs. “Huh? Yuuko,” he squinted as he made his way towards the edge of the rink. “Sorry – I was lost in thought.” Slipping his glasses on to peer owlishly at her, he gave a wary smile.

Yuuko’s grin was eager. “I was wondering…I mean, you don’t have to….” She trailed off, wanting to jump and down. “But…can you do a routine for me? Just me – no one else is here.” True – it was late in the day, but she’d also locked the entrance to prevent unwanted visitors. Takeshi, whom she considered Yuuri’s Truth Bomber as well as her boyfriend, had been ushered out to avoid a Critical Meltdown, just in case he said something insensitive or too complimentary. Sometimes being nice to Yuuri had the same effect as being harsh.

It wasn’t as if she was the first person to ask. It certainly wasn’t her first time asking. On occasion, he would say yes and she felt like the luckiest human alive. She’d never push, even now. Yuuri knew this too.

“…I uh, I guess,” he muttered, surprised (as he was every time) by such a request. “I mean, I had something…. I’ve been working on it for a little over a month.”

That wasn’t too surprising. Yuuri often replicated Viktor Nikiforov’s routines to try and learn how to make his own.

“Any one you’d like, as always,” Yuuko tried not to gush, but she was happy for his willingness. He seemed a bit less reluctant than usual, which also ramped up her expectations.

Yuuri gave a rare smile that felt solid, reaching his eyes. “Alright…give me a few minutes.”

 

 

 

He’d tried to choreograph his own routines before, but they hadn’t been works of art – more importantly, they _definitely_ weren’t technically correct. Instead of straining his imagination, he let himself be forced by the requirements listed for a short program, give or take a triple, adding more to the ‘required’ list whenever he wanted to do something longer. It helped him match movement to music without keeping to familiar or ‘safe’ territory. He combined moves from different routines that worked well together, uncertain but excited. Challenging himself was fun, and without outside judgement it was physically possible.

Flipping through his player for the right music, he stopped. Right hand moved to shakily remove his glasses and close them against the railing. The nervous tension strung itself through his shoulders and down his spine, clenching nerves he didn’t even know he had. Prickling started at his extremities and he stilled, just for a moment. Inhale, he reminded himself. Exhale. Once again.

It was just Yuuko. It was just family.

The song began slowly, a few beats after he made it to the center of the ice. A high note, a solitary violin string vibrating into the echoing silence. The pitch slid down, and so did Yuuri, before he pushed himself freely into the music, cutting into the ice as gently as the solo instrument, as if promising not to be too harsh; this was a gentle piece.

Hardly did he need actual music to dance to. The melody of [Scheherazade](https://youtu.be/kjvnTSukrJo?t=410) rung in his ears when he slept, the crescendos and diminuendos vibrated against his muscles, the rhythm pulsed deep in his bones.

It also happened to be Viktor Nikiforov’s song. Well. The original song from the Olympic performance in Turin. Remixing it, he felt, in the part of his heart that fell in love with classical music, did it a disservice. So he only took the last four minutes or so of the original arrangement and made a dance of it. It was a lot simpler to say than do.

A kiss of the back heel into the ice. The world spun vividly, and he made a successful land, the solid hold of gravity pulled him into confidence. Two more jumps; a triple toe loop, a double – and the long spin into the soft finish as the song playfully dipped into silence, trailing off just like its namesake to make a promise for tomorrow.

Clapping and an enthusiastic cheer snapped him back into reality. He hadn’t even realized he’d finished.

“Ah, it was good?” he sailed over toward the sound of her voice.

“Beautiful,” Yuuko insisted, and she sniffled – and Yuuri realized to his horror that she was crying, one hand clutching her phone though both were bunched up near her face.

“Yu-Yuuko,” he stammered, taken aback by her response. Frankly, he was surprised he hadn’t hit the ice this time around, with her here. That was a small victory he supposed.

“Oh, Yuuri it was beautiful! You looked better than Viktor!” She didn’t even breathe and just started hugging him, jumping up and down and causing Yuuri to make a desperate grab for the guardrail.

Breathless from the routine, and now disbelief, the boy chuffed. “Sacrilege of that statement aside…thank you,” he demurred, trying to hold the both of them up without slipping onto the ice while embarrassment and pride turned his pale skin pink.

It was traitorous, to want to be acknowledged. He thought this as Yuuko blew her nose and apologized for her outburst, despite the fact that she was still beaming at him. She didn’t know what he was like in front of a crowd, and frankly, he hoped she never would.

Besides those triples were supposed to be quads and he still had trouble with those.

And it was a patchwork, really; ideas and clips sewn together to make a Frankenstein of a routine.

Just as well, he was pretty sure some of those step sequences near the end weren’t to regulation.

“Hey,” Yuuko spoke, voice thick from tears unshed. It snapped Yuuri out of his reverie, eyes widening as he broke free from the maudlin daze he had been slipping into. “Minako said she wanted to see you and your parents tomorrow for dinner? Did she text you yet?”

“Not yet,” Yuuri responded, regaining composure.

“Well, we’re joining you guys too.”

An eyebrow rose, innocent curiosity overcoming him. It wasn’t often that they all ate together at the same time, besides birthdays and holidays. “What’s the occasion?”

It seemed Yuuko couldn’t help herself, drawing up with a smug and satisfied expression on her face. “You’ll see!”

Uh oh. “No,” he groaned. “I hate surprises,” he muttered mostly to himself.

“This one is good, I promise.”

 

 

 

While he had graduated in March, he had been working with his parents since. They didn’t push him in any particular direction, something he didn’t quite understand, but then, his parents hadn’t been the most overbearing. They knew he liked his solitude, and it was generally understood that if he wanted to stay in Hasetsu, he absolutely could (working at the onsen, that is – Yuuri didn’t think they’d enjoy him mooching). Idly, he wondered what he could do to truly disappoint them, then shivered.

Honestly, he was a little afraid to find out.

Grateful for their support in whatever he chose, he kept narrowing down a list of ideas he’d created when he was in middle school. It was actually a little known fact that he enjoyed most things he put his mind to do. Probably because most of the time he seemed very inclined to sell himself short. He had crossed off _danseur_ as well as _singer_ , and _pianist_ (while side-eyeing the keyboard in his room with a tinge of guilt). He didn’t have a great way with words, so that was a no to _author_. Writing was never up his alley anyway; dialogue was not his strong suit – on paper or in real life.

Belatedly, his pen tip hovered briefly over _figure skater_. Brown eyes widened in surprise.

 _I thought I’d already crossed that one off_.

A beat of consideration, and he instead added _ice skating instructor_ , thinking of Ice Castle and the cozy sense of peace it had given him all these years. It would make enough money to live modestly, and he could still help his family with their business if needed. Mind’s eye conjured himself a few years from now, and it was a very … serene mental image.

A snuffling around his knee made him look up and smile. Vicchan wuffed at him and tried to crawl into his lap, plaintive in his want for affection given in the form of pets and scritches. The boy laughed under his breath and obliged.

After that, Yuuri left the list alone to finish his chores. The words _figure skater_ remained unblemished.

 

 

 

“SHH. Shh. Quiet. EVERYONE SHH. This is important!”

It wasn’t like she hadn’t gotten drunk in front of them before, but Minako wasn’t the type to interrupt a good party with serious pronouncements. Yuuri had a mouthful of curry in his mouth when she insisted upon the group’s silence, and he swallowed hard in surprise.

“Yuu-chan,” his mother intruded with a small smile. “I know we didn’t get you a real gift for graduation.”

He opened his mouth to protest with wide eyes, but his mother held up a hand. “And honestly, it’s because we were trying to decide what to give you. Mari had some very interesting ideas about your Viktor –”

“He’s not _my_ –”

Hiroko overrode her son’s squeaking protests like she’d been doing it all her life. Goodness he blushed so easily. “But I thought you might enjoy something a bit more useful.” She inclined her head. “It was Yuuko-chan’s idea, but we all chipped in to make it work.”

She pulled out a small packet and what looked suspiciously like a plane ticket.

Yuuri was beginning to feel a tad lightheaded. “What…what is this?”

A loud thud occurred when a big sports bag hit the table, and Yuuri started. Yuuko’s face appeared over it, beaming as hard as Takeshi was. “It’s your graduation gift silly!” she intoned, vibrating with excitement. “Come on, open it up!”

Inside of the sturdy duffel were shining, brand new skates, along with much of the necessary gear to accompany them. Clothes that were obviously high quality sportswear had been folded neatly underneath.

Inside the envelope, there was a thick brochure entitled ‘Sky Rink’s Apex Figure Skating Camp,’ once in English and again in Japanese.

There was a slight ringing in Yuuri’s ears.

The entire table was silent as his hands unfolded the paper, skimming through the basics: month long program, on and off-rink training, professional coaching, new—New York city. America? He was pretty sure his English was rusty, but he was a better listener than speaker. It proudly stated its reputation as a world-class training facility, and the sinking feeling in Yuuri’s gut became abruptly more prominent.

“I…I can’t just…enter, can I?” were the first words out of his mouth, and they were barely a whisper. He turned bright red and bowed. “I – Sorry! Thank you!” He bowed, holding the pamphlet and ticket to his chest with trembling hands. “But – is, can I … do I qualify?” he managed, choking on his words as a strange heat surged into his lungs.

Everyone else present seemed to smile as one, as if there was a collective mental sigh of relief. “Anyone can enter as long as they know the basics. There are several people there who can evaluate your skill and set about teaching you what you need to know.” Minako sounded almost sober but for her listing slightly to the right. If Yuuri hadn’t known better, she almost sounded nervous.

“I – It was my idea, Yuuri,” Yuuko finally piped up, more subdued than she was five heartbeats ago. “You don’t have to go – we know it’s your … it’s your own thing,” she floundered for the right words. “But we think you’d be great at it with some encouragement! Professional encouragement.”

“You don’t have to go,” his father interjected. Toshiya smiled, an arm around his wife. “We’re letting you decide.”

The ringing got louder. “You all did this, for me?” he uttered after what felt like an age had passed. The numb feeling he got before one of his _episodes_ started to permeate his consciousness. Desperate, he gripped softly into Vicchan’s fur, who pushed into his hand.

“Of course we did,” Hiroko murmured, worry starting furrow her brow. “We just want you to be happy, Yuuri. Whatever you choose, we’re there with you.” Warily, she managed a grin. “Besides, this’ll be an adventure. You’ll learn a lot. And your English is more than passable.”

A hand was on his shoulder. He was proud he didn’t flinch. “You can only know what you want for sure when you get all the facts,” Takeshi emphasized with a strong pat. “Don’t you wanna be sure?”

“Takeshi! Don’t pressure him!”

“We’re already pressuring him!”

Yuuri, disassociating but not quite gone from the world, frowned slightly. “Okay,” he said. It was nearly drowned out by the amount of protective noises coming from his family. Pale from uncertainty, he cleared his throat. “I – I’d like to go.”

Silence reigned again. But only briefly. Yuuri attempted a smile, but he was very sure his face was doing something else.

The cheering and hugging helped him remember he was on planet earth. The many thank yous that left his lips were genuine, and the hugs he gave might have been weak, but they were real. He couldn’t believe what they had done for him, and while the numbness hadn’t left, a sense of how fortunate he was permeated his skin with warmth.

It was about an hour later, once dinner was cleaned away and others had gone home, that he sat under the blanket on his bed, Vicchan bundled up with him, tears flowing from his eyes, his sobs muffled by a pillow.

_I can’t go, I can’t, I can’t I can’t I can’t –_

_But I said I would. And I want to._

His mind was yelling at him, instincts pulling in both directions. His heart hurt.

_I’ll fail. I’ve failed before. I’ll fail over and over again. I’m a fraud. My parents – Yuuko-chan – they don’t understand._

_But Minako-sensei knows_. _And she’s a professional_.

Vicchan licked away the tears he could reach, snuggling closer without protest from his owner. Yuuri held his dog closer, and tried to calm the hiccoughs and sniffles.

 _I’d be a joke. I was a joke. An imposter in a real sport, with real athletes_.

 _It’s just a summer camp, wimp_.

 _I’ll be laughed off the ice_.

 _I’ll make them sorry they did_.

Startled by his own thoughts, Yuuri choked back another sad noise, and tried to get control of his breathing again. What if he could get his fears under control, at least? A real coach could help that much.

It was a bit too far long of a shot. There were therapists for his stupid brain problems after all. But it gave him just enough courage to settle his nerves, dialing his anxieties back down to an eleven.

As Vicchan lay upon his back, warming his center, Yuuri closed his eyes. He slept the fitful sleep of someone who wasn’t sure if they were going to the gallows.

 

 

 

It was a very comfortable 9am in the morning when a loud yelling and barking woke Yuuri from slumber.

“I’m so sorry Yuuri!”

The door slammed open of and the boy in question leapt at least a foot into the air, eyes cracking open in surprise while his throat squeaked out something resembling protest. Even without his glasses, he could recognize the intruder’s voice. “Yuuko!” Hoarse from sleep, his voice cracked at an embarrassing octave. “G-get out of my room!” he cried, unsure what else to say to make her leave. “What are you doing? Wait – no!” He was being hugged again, and he tried to squirm free while simultaneously reaching for his glasses, missing them at least three times before he could get them on his face.

Through the smudges of fingerprints, he could now clearly see that Yuuko was preemptively in tears. She wasn’t usually so prone to those (honestly), and Yuuri panicked. Again. “Please, please stop crying – what's is going on?” he tried again, once he managed to get his heart rate back down and locate the timbre his voice was supposed to be at.

Snff. “I – I had meant it to be a – a surprise,” wailed his best friend and normally rational adult. “Bu-but Takeshi accidentally hit –” snrrff “the submit button and – and now it’s up and I – I tried to make it private but I didn’t know how! And —”

Yuuri was still very lost. “Yuuko, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he pleaded, the question evident at the end of his sentence.

Obvious in her shame, Yuuko bowed her head, and handed over her phone.

He hadn’t actually expected much, considering it sounded like Yuuko was the guilty party, but when he squinted at the phone’s screen he realized what he was seeing.

If a human being could freeze solid, Yuuri would have been an ice sculpture - which would then explain his subsequent slow motion, full-body melt to plant his reddening face into his sheets. There was a keening sort of noise that was probably coming from his throat, but he couldn’t tell, he was too busy dying by way of embarrassment and horror.

The phone lay forgotten to the side as Yuuko bowed millions of apologies, and the video of what had been Yuuri’s private performance played on, a tinny version of _Scheherazade_ drowned out almost entirely by the two people in question.

 _What god have I angered to deserve this_.


	2. New Soil; New Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Yuuri is only a little, Minako's friends speak a lot about her as a person, and the phrase 'pole dancing' has no real meaning in Japanese._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone who commented, kudos'd, bookmarked, and subscribed! I appreciate it; I'm admittedly kind of addicted to writing this, so I may ruin my life for it. 
> 
> please send help.

_Petty lies to everyone_  
_In the hopes that I could be someone_  
_Heaven talks but not to me  
_ _And now I wonder if it's meant to be_

 

Despite the growing number of views on the video that he dared not think about, Yuuri wasn’t changing his mind about going to New York. He was having what felt like heart palpitations, his face was bright red since he’d been woken, and there was a 100% certainty that he would probably pass out if he got to higher altitudes. He didn’t blame Yuuko – she hadn’t meant to make it public (as she had explained ad nauseum), only to show him and share with family.

But.

This wasn’t about him. His family – Yuuko’s family – Minako-sensei… they had pooled together to give him something he thought he would have never deserved. And despite the voice in his head insisting it would be a disaster, he couldn’t bring himself to deny their gift ( _gifts_ actually). His insides cramped at the thought of disappointing them.

And a small, tiny part of him that he had thought was dead was _thrilled_.

It surprised his family, to say the least. “I’m glad you’re not chickening out, little brother,” Mari said cheerfully, to which he responded with a hand covering his face, removing his glasses to rub his eyes.

“I couldn’t do that to you,” he insisted, swearing he was now permanently flustered.

Yuuko was huddled over phone. “ _SO MANY VIEWS,_ ” she didn’t whisper.

Yuuri tried to ignore her. It wasn’t working. “You’ve all done so much for me, I can’t…I couldn’t….” There was a flip in his stomach, and he gulped down whatever he’d been about to say.

Mari’s normally apathetic face warmed itself into affection. “Don’t think this is a permanent way to guilt trip you,” she sounded quite serious. “If you don’t want to go, for sure, we will understand.”

“No,” he reiterated, trying his utmost to sound calm. “I can do this. It’s just a camp, I mean – it’s a really prestigious one, and there’ll be professionals there, and aspiring medalists, and I’m just an amateur skater and they’ll think I’m not taking it seriously and – ”

“Breathe, Yuuri.”

Mari’s hand was on his head. “Breathe.”

Yuuri obeyed, shaking. In and out. Even as he was panicking he sent his sister a disheveled, stubborn look. “I want to go,” he insisted, and for the first time it sounded like he had no second thoughts whatsoever. In spite of his stupid brain making dozens of overtures to his heart, insisting he was being crazy and that he needed to stop being so presumptuous about his own abilities.

In response, Mari smirked. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

 

 

 

He had a few months to prepare, but the time passed by like it was trying to outrun him. Despite Yuuko’s insistence, and despite her actually figuring out how to set the video to private, Yuuri had staunchly avoided looking at it. He didn’t really want to die of embarrassment all over again.

There was also something nerve-wracking about actually seeing himself perform. Whenever he danced, or practiced on the rink, he had to remove his glasses first for obvious reasons. But the world was easier to move through when he couldn’t pinpoint other distractions. He liked it that way. No matter how many mirrors there were in Minako’s studio, he’d never been able to see if he was getting the right pose without his teacher present – he supposed he’d never considered it a hindrance, but now he wondered how far he could have gotten without her. Yuuko as well, though she would deny her assistance profusely.

Which is why he eventually told her that she could turn the privacy settings off, despite his inherent feeling that this would somehow bring him to his doom.

“Really?” she was already taking out her phone. “Oh gosh, wow! Even if you don’t want to see people’s comments, I like to keep track.” She practically sparkled at him. “Thank you!”

It was worth his embarrassment, he supposed. Without her, he wouldn’t have gotten this far.

Plane rides were not the grandest thing ever. All the things he’d been worried about most/giving him pangs of pain in his chest had to do with hitting every transfer, every train and bus ride. Once those were done, Yuuri just made sure he didn’t lose track of his belongings. He’d nearly lost his glasses twice on the plane when he finally passed out.

Back home, he had barely registered Minako when she promised that a good friend would be picking him up at the airport. She would be holding up a sign, so Yuuri figured he wouldn’t have to think too hard past the jetlag haze he was sure he’d be in when he passed through customs.

Sure enough, a tall woman holding a placard with his name in English and kanji waved him down as soon as she spotted him. He gravitated toward her, uncertainty in every movement. “Um, hello,” he managed, doing his best not to feel overwhelmed.

“Hey! I’m Misha,” the woman pronounced with a smile, her voice a rich alto. Dark, umber skin and bright lipstick blinded him as much as her enthusiasm. She looked about the same age as his mentor, but five times more wild. All of her clothing screamed action and fun, which was entirely the opposite of what he was expecting when it came to Minako-sensei. “Wonderful to meet you – I can call you Yuuri?”

Yuuri nodded, aware of western custom enough to know that here it wasn’t a brusque assumption of familiarity.

“Awesome. Welcome to America! Minako told me a lot about you.”

“O-oh?”

“I’m just thrilled that you were able to make it all the way here. The camp’s got its own lodgings set up for you at The High Line Hotel, but I was wondering if you were hungry? We can go get something to eat.”

“Yes,” he answered, more passionately than he meant to, and dropped his gaze, worried that he’d been abrupt.

“Ha, no worries, I figured. Airplane food is the _worst_.” She ushered him along, toting his large suitcase along behind her like it weighed nothing. Yuuri blinked twice at that. “Have you ever had pizza? Proper,” she emphasized, “Pizza.”

“I… I do not think so,” he admitted, the beginnings of calm starting to smooth out his edges. He would be lucky not to pass out once he got in a car. “I am - I’m not sure Japanese version is …like it is here.”

“Well I won’t put you off any dietary plans if I get you a slice or two, will I?”

“Mnn,” was Yuuri’s uncertain response. He was pretty regimented for a reason, but he was so incredibly tired and hungry. He’d make it up tomorrow, he thought while shaking his head at his host.

It was hard to remember how to speak with his brain so fuzzy, so he was glad to see Misha nodding in response. He only noticed then that despite her exuberance she was speaking fairly clearly, at a tempo he found easier to understand. A bit of him warmed to her then, though he didn’t notice until later. “That’s what I thought. I’ll take you to Lombardi’s.”

They moved through a maze of people aiming to wait curbside. Yuuri realized he was lagging so he hurried his steps. “Thank you,” he remembered to say, still a little surprised by her warmth.

“No problem. Oh that reminds me! Your busy days don’t start until Monday, so you’ve got the weekend all to yourself. You can call me if you want someone to take you around; I’ll give you my number. It may look small on a map, but Manhattan is enormous on foot.”

Despite her caution with clarity, it was still a lot of stuff to digest. His contemplative silence didn’t seem to bother Misha, but he felt a bit bad for not giving much in the way of conversational direction. “I wasn’t sure what was best to see,” he said at last, squeezing into the Air Train that led away from JFK International. Honestly he hadn’t thought about sight-seeing at all – right up until the moment the plane got low enough to see the New York City on the horizon. Now he couldn’t help but feel curious. Intimidated too.

“I’ll let you know the – oh shoot, you have a temporary SIM card don’t you?”

Yuuri fell into idle chatter easier than he thought he would. The rust fell away from his English, and he sounded near to fluent that he felt comfortable asking more questions. In addition to traveling knee-deep in traffic, they went over a very long checklist of things he would need while he was in the States. He had most of it with him already, and was relieved to hear that the cost of a SIM card wasn’t too terrible, and that he could get data. While he wasn’t very active online, it would help to keep in touch back home. And there was always Wi-Fi at the hotel.

Weirdly, he didn’t sleep in the car. Misha’s presence seemed to engender excitement, whether he liked it or not.

Once they finally got onto the island, (after several stops to pick up a bit of laundry detergent and the aforementioned SIM) Yuuri’s appreciation for public transport had grown exponentially. He was relieved beyond measure when Misha assured him he wouldn’t have deal with car rides off the island much while he was here.

His momentary companion left him to text everyone back home that he had landed and was safe. The phone buzzed madly, and the first message he saw was from Minako.

 

 **Minako-Sensei:** _Good to hear! Ooh, and make sure you try a pastrami sandwich from Katz’s. Also ask Misha about her Friday night classes! It’s a great program that’s good for your upper body, and its good strength training in general. Good luck!_ J

 

“Friday night classes?” he echoed without meaning to.

The first thing he heard to his left was a deep chuckle. “That minx,” Misha muttered, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “She’s just teasing you. I do own a dance studio, but Friday night classes are for my pole dancing course.”

Yuuri wore a look of innocence so obvious that Misha raised both of her eyebrows. “You know what that is, right?”

“Er.”

“Well, it’s not what most people would assume. You use the pole to dance, like it’s an extension of the floor. It’s a bit different than what you’d see at a strip club,” she spoke, voice wry. When Yuuri still looked like he had no idea what she was saying, Misha eyed him warily. “I guess … if you want to learn more you can always come by tonight and see for yourself.”

“I – okay,” Yuuri said, now more curious than anything. Maybe he would know what she meant when he visited. Maybe there was a bit of a linguistic mix up. “She said it is good for, um. Upper…um? Upper body strength?”

The boisterous laugh from Misha made him jump. “I guess that’s true! Why, are you interested?” she grinned at him, teasing obvious. “I admit, I’ve been trying to get guys to join up, but it’s not as easy as it looks, even in New York.”

“I can try,” he insisted, flustered by her gaze and somewhat annoyed that he seemed to be missing the joke.

Now it was Misha’s turn to look startled. “Aren’t you full of surprises?” The smile wasn’t teasing this time, more like the kind of face Mari pulled at him on rare occasion. A look of pride.  “In that case, just make sure to wear your regular dance gear. Do you have shorts? Leg warmers?”

There was something about their conversation, about best stretches and favorite ballet techniques, that almost made Yuuri forget he was in a different country altogether. It was familiar and Misha was obviously eager to be a friend, having similar interests. She was a teacher herself – Yuuri found common ground even if he wasn’t actually her student.

They arrived at the hotel, and Yuuri bit back a sound that would have undoubtedly embarrassed him. Behind him, Misha gave a low whistle. “Damn, that is a fine looking establishment.”

At least he wasn’t the only one impressed. “A – Are you sure that the address is correct?” he asked, a tiny sliver of doubt turning into a huge sinkhole in the blink of an eye.

“Pretty sure,” and he could swear her voice was grinning as much as she was. “Go check in, I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

It looked like a tiny old European college in the gothic style, with red brick and a bright green courtyard. Spring in New York was not as warm as spring in Hasetsu, but it was a very familiar damp sort of heat and the apple blossoms were already budding. Frankly, Yuuri wasn’t sure if he should be happy or terrified. This was a place rich people stayed, and he had no idea how to pretend that this didn’t completely awe him. Beautifully renovated on the inside and out, this seemed more like a fancy dormitory than a hotel.

“Ah, Katsuki Yuuri,” the blonde woman at the counter said his name with perfect pronunciation. She looked up. “You’re with the skating group, yes? Apex?”

“H- Yes,” he almost responded in Japanese. “Um.” He paused. “ _Nihongo o hanasemasu ka_?” he asked, hopeful.

“ _Hai_.” She bowed her head briefly and looked a bit shy. “ _Gomen_ , but I’m a bit slow to comprehend. Do you need a translator?”

“N-no, thank you,” he assured her. There had been a part of him that just needed to hear his native tongue, and he felt better for it. “I just wanted to make sure someone else could. Just in case.” Whatever that meant; Yuuri felt an internal ear tug at the idea that he needed babying.

Her name tag said ‘Jane’ and she grinned. “Quite alright! I would too, in your shoes. You’re in room – oh! Well, since you’re the first person here, you can have your pick.” Lips quirked in a sly manner. “Our little secret.”

Americans were a lot more forward than he was used to, Yuuri decided. “Ah…. whatever you think is best, please do not trouble yourself,” he lowered his gaze quickly and tried not to blush when Jane giggled.

“For that, I’ll let it be a surprise,” Jane chirped, noting something quickly on the computer in front of her. “A good one.”

All good surprises he’d experienced as of late had been double-edged swords in nature, but Yuuri wasn’t hard pressed to admit that he hadn’t enjoyed every one of them. “Thank you!” he bowed swiftly in response, still not quite used to the warm reception. It was true, this was his first time outside of Japan, but he had expected his first visit to be a lot less...well, less. Less intimidating, less welcoming, perhaps. He wasn’t entirely sure.

 _Well, at least I haven’t said anything stupid yet_ , he thought to himself as he hurried off with his room assignment.

‘Yet’ being the optimal word.

Lugging everything as he was and preoccupied with the slight slipping of his glasses while catching the elevator, Yuuri didn’t even notice what would have been a familiar platinum-haired face entering the lobby with a small entourage of people following behind him.

 

 

 

Misha clapped her hands decidedly. “Alright people, huddle up.”

Yuuri was stretching, feeling a mixture of sleep-deprived and restless and working out the kinks he’d developed being cramped on the airplane not a few hours ago. His new acquaintance, or teacher rather, had been correct – he was currently one of two participating guys in a room otherwise full of girls. To those that knew Yuuri even slightly, they would have been surprised at his nonchalance. Yuuri inwardly scoffed at the thought; he’d been taking ballet since he was tiny – he was absolutely used to being of the minority gender in a dance class.

The leg warmers were keeping to their namesake. Misha had cleaned him up a pair to use and they were fresh out of the dryer, otherwise he was in his usual shorts and tank top. No shoes, he had been told, and though surprised he had obeyed.

“We’re practicing our carousel straddle spins today,” she started as the girls groaned in unison. “AND we’ll be working on cross knee release, and advanced layback poses. Yuuri is visiting from Japan and wanted to see what this whole business was about,” she continued smoothly, drawing eyes to him as he hunched under the attention. “I’ll work with him separately, but let me get you guys started.”

It was no surprise that he suffered a minute moment of panic when he walked in and saw the poles spread out across the otherwise normal looking dance studio, glasses slipping down his face as it morphed into mortification. Several things had clicked in his head; now he realized why Misha had been surprised he wanted to try. In their conversations, she had emphasized that this was an inherently sensual practice, but it wasn’t just grinding up against a pole and taking off clothes (“especially that,” she had grumbled, while Yuuri turned into a tomato). He hadn’t exactly seen pole dancing before, so he was at least receptive to her notions.

His ears had perked up at ‘layback poses’ – if they were similar to layback spins on the ice, then he might be better at this than he thought.

Perhaps it was being out of his element, but Yuuri felt a bit more emboldened than usual to compensate for his undercurrent of fear, having gotten used to fighting it since his family had surprised him months ago. He fiddled with the hair clips Misha had inserted into his hair. He really hadn’t realized it’d gotten long enough to flop over his eyes and tickle the nape of his neck.

It turned out, that yes, the poses and spins Misha showed her class were very, very familiar. Yuuri fought back nervousness at the thought of eyes on him trying these moves, but … Misha didn’t have to host or take care of him. With a tiny sigh, he slipped off his glasses. She was doing this for Minako-sensei, as a favor, and something in Yuuri didn’t want to disappoint either of them.

So when he managed to get up the pole nearest to him and imitated Misha’s moves, he was gladdened to hear her let out a half-yell, half-cheer. “Ha! Well done Yuuri! I totally should teach you how to climb up this thing though….”

And so she did, commenting under her breath as she watched him move and pose, the spins being so much slower than he was used to giving him a chance to course correct mid-air as his bent knee held him in place. This was turning out to be a lot more informative than he’d originally thought.

“Are you a dancer?” came a soft query. Upside down while Misha corrected his pose, Yuuri’s flushed face blinked at the only other male here.

“Yes,” he said, strained, before he (with Misha’s permission) spun upright and landed back on his feet. “I practice ballet,” he explained, still a tiny bit shocked that he wasn’t feeling too strong an urge to flee the studio. The quiet acceptance of the other class members seemed to help him keep his head. “And other things.” He grabbed his water bottle and took a swig.

It was a fact often told to him that he looked young for his age, Yuuri knew this. Even without squinting, he could tell the young man before him was taller and much broader in the shoulders. “You’re _really_ good if that’s your first time on the pole,” the soft tone turned playful. “Just wanted to say.”

Spluttering water all over oneself was a great way to make friends, surely. Yuuri coughed and wiped his face with his arm, blush obvious. “I’m just um – what is the phrase – copy-catting?” he offered, the squeak in his voice hopefully not so obvious.

“Not for long. You know what you’re doing,” the other man waved a hand over his shoulder as he turned his attention back to his own practice. “Just nice to see another guy interested; hope you drop by again while you’re here.”

Yuuri, even amidst his own feathers being ruffled, allowed himself a small, proud smile.

Their practice lasted for the first hour, but the second half was spent working on a specific routine. Yuuri had wanted to abstain, but was feeling up to the challenge of following Misha’s movements – it was supposed to be a fairly simple run through and she was more or less eyeballing her real students for critical errors.

As soon as the music started Yuuri knew he had made a huge mistake.

 

[ _Get you where you wanna go, if you know what I mean_ ](https://youtu.be/d_6DpP8a8_c)  
[ _Got a ride that's smoother than a limousine_](https://youtu.be/d_6DpP8a8_c)  
[ _Can you handle the curves, can you run all the lights  
_ _If you can, baby boy, then we can go all night_](https://youtu.be/d_6DpP8a8_c)

 

He really could have died. But there was no stopping now. Biting his lip, he followed along, closing his eyes as he tried to feel the unfamiliar music. It wasn’t anything like he usually listened to, but it was…fun. Provocative. Unlike him entirely.

But sure enough, he found it easier (eyes closed, everything was) as the beats passed to roll his shoulders, keeping his legs and toes pointed and the rest of him loose. Hips swayed slightly as he grew braver, and following Misha’s general placement from afar, he pulled off a spin that left him dizzy and strangely happy.

The feeling would carry him through the rest of the song, his movements effortless.

 

 

 

Arriving back at the hotel was fairly straightforward using the subway. Dark outside at last, Yuuri rubbed the eye twitch that was forming as he pushed into the low-lit lobby of his hotel. It was becoming apparent that jetlag was starting to punish him physically as well as mentally; he was fairly sure he didn’t even know what time it was.

Jumbled thoughts were interrupted by a loud shout and raucous laughter.

There was a party in the lounge. Exhausted from the time zone difference and two hours of learning a whole new form of dance, Yuuri – bleary eyed and still more or less dressed in his dancewear but with the addition of leggings – gave what Yuuko had coined a ‘polite stink-eye’ toward the group. How dare anyone be awake and moving right now?

“Oh, Mr. Katsuki!”

Jane hurried to him, and Yuuri urged his face to do something other than glare. “Pardon me,” she said, and it seemed like she was ignoring his harried appearance. “I just wanted to let you know that a few of the early-arrivals for your camp are in the lounge. But,” she pulled together a professional expression in spite of a tiny slip towards amusement. “You seem ready to hit the hay.”

“Ah,” he breathed. “Yes. Thank you for telling me,” he responded nonetheless. “I am a bit tired,” he agreed, proud that he understood that colloquialism.

“No problem! Let the front desk know if you need anything,” she assured him, waving him good night.

Shooting one last glance at the group loudly chattering away, Yuuri trudged off toward the elevator.

Because he was a zombie and not his usual cognizant self, he made the mistake of not looking up before trying to enter.

The physical impact shook him and he fell backward, the word blurring into unhelpful colored shapes as his glasses fell off and clattered to the ground.  There wasn’t enough energy in him to get upset, but he hissed in pain regardless. “Wha—?” was all he could get out, scrambling to right himself. Discombobulated, Yuuri scrunched his eyes closed instead.

“ _Der'mo_ – I’m sorry, are you alright?”

“Its fine,” he managed, still keeping his eyes closed until the spinning stopped. There was something familiar about that voice, and that accent, he was sure of it. Yet with sleep hovering behind his brain and sans a regular person’s eyesight, Yuuri was somewhat at a loss. He was probably just imagining things.

“My apologies,” there was a hand reaching out to him, but Yuuri waved him away, not impatient, but starting to worry. Retaining enough of his usual self, a blush started up on his face.

“My glasses, I’m sorry – I don’t want them—” he tried to say broken and crushed at the same time and ended up choking back the word entirely because there was a sudden lurch of fear at the thought of trying to get a replacement so far away from home.

“Ah, found them!” the same voice proclaimed nearly immediately after Yuuri’s panic started to flare, placing them into Yuuri’s open palm. He almost fumbled the item a second time. “Let me help you up.” It wasn’t so much a request as it was an action. As soon as those words were out in the air, Yuuri’s free hand had been gripped and he was rising off the ground in one fluid motion. There was a stutter of movement as he stepped back and let go of the warm, dry hand – which returned to steady him, holding his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re alright?” the man asked.

“That was my fault, I’m sorry,” Yuuri murmured, heat still taking over the skin on his face. He kept his eyes down, unwilling to show the discomfort at being touched so flagrantly as this awkward mess was on him. “It’s okay.”

He was attempting to clean the lenses before he put them on, but realized they’d be useless as smudged as they were; akin to looking through a fog. Unbidden, an irritated sigh escaped his lips and he ran a hand through his hair; it took a beat to realize what he’d sounded like and he clapped a hand over his mouth and bowed on instinct. “Ah – I am really sorry. I just, it’s just…” _that I’m a flaming garbage can of a human being no big deal its fine_.

“It’s quite fine I assure you, as long as you’re not hurt at all.” The stranger’s clear voice sounded abashed, but relieved. There was pause in the breath of the other man’s conversation, but Yuuri didn’t have time to ask the fuzzy blur in front of him what the problem might be. “Can you see at all without those?” came the lilting tones at last, two parts amused and three parts concerned.

“Not really,” he answered, up front and not stammering. There was a hint of drollness running underneath. Might as well be honest about that, right?

“I can walk you back to your room?”

And now he felt like an invalid. “I just need to clean these,” he mumbled to himself, still avoiding eye contact, as if the blurry figure before him would cause spontaneous combustion with merely a glance.

“I insist. I’m in no hurry,” the stranger urged.

In no mood to try and explain himself using a second language, Yuuri succumbed after agonizing over his life choices and why so many of them lately had been bad. “…Okay.” It was only a millisecond before he felt that warm hand grab him by the bicep and tug gently back toward the elevator.

“What floor are you on?”

Self-conscious of his own weaknesses and the fact that he probably stunk from his workout, Yuuri rubbed his lenses one last time, harshly – as if they had personally betrayed him. “Sixth,” he murmured as he was ushered. “602,” he finally uttered, hearing the _ding_ of the elevator before the doors shut.

“Oho,” his not-quite-victim murmured, sounding – of all things – intrigued. “It seems we’re neighbors. I’m right across from you.”

“Really?” Yuuri doesn’t know why this somehow this changes everything. He coughed into his hand, smothering the strangeness that felt like it was trying to sneak up on him. “A-are you with the camp?”

And he’s hardly sure he even asked the question; he very nearly breathed it instead of using his vocal chords.

Apparently having heard him regardless, his helper chuffed good-naturedly. “The figure skating training camp? Not so, no. I’m only here for two months.” The silence isn’t uncomfortable. Yuuri had a feeling the other man was being contemplative, not rude. “Are you?”

Yuuri nodded once, his gaze very much unfocused as there wasn’t much for him to focus on. He keeps himself from looking askance, not that it would do him much good.

“Wonderful!”

Well that wasn’t what he was expecting. Though the joy in the other man’s voice gave him pause. Yuuri pondered all the sacrifices his family and friends made to get him here, now, and his shoulders relaxed just a little. “It is,” he muttered, almost forgetting he was talking to someone he wasn’t really acquainted with. “Ah…I’m very lucky to be here.”

The elevator opens, chiming at them a second time. The other man, with a caution Yuuri doesn’t quite realize, tugs his arm to follow him. “I’m sorry – you look very familiar to me,” the stranger spoke with genuine confusion as they headed to the end of the hall. “I keep trying to place you.”

Yuuri opened his mouth, finally turning to try and squint. All he could make out was very, very light hair and skin. He sighed again, feeling useless.  “I’m no one,” he insisted, though not unkindly. He was trying to remember his manners, scattered as they were. “You won’t have seen me anywhere.”

“Ah…well – I tend to be forgetful, so I wanted to make sure,” he sounded cheerful, yet unconvinced. “Well, this one’s yours.” They came to a stop. “If those are damaged in anyway, I will absolutely pay for a replacement.”

It took a beat for Yuuri to realize the man had gestured toward the glasses in his hands. “No no no,” Yuuri’s denial came out less harsh and more frantic. “Please, no – they are fine. They just need to be cleaned. Thank you – but I could not.”

The stranger chuckled. “Alright. Well, it was nice to meet you neighbor!” He gave a quick pat to Yuuri’s shoulder and stepped back. “I would enjoy your company further, but I’m afraid I have functions I must attend.”

 _Fancypants_ , Yuuri’s inner snark monster supplied, though it was more amused than bitter. “O-of course. I am – I am sorry I ran into you, but thank you for helping me.” He bowed to the taller blur.

Exchanging a fond farewell with someone he didn’t know had to be on a list called Yuuri Doesn’t Do That. But then, Yuuri didn’t do very much at all and yet he was still here, thousands of miles from home.

Unable to keep his eyes open after he washed his face, Yuuri unabashedly (and uncharacteristically) fell face first into his mattress without bothering to get under the covers. It was so comfortable and plush, he let out a small groan of satisfaction as relief spread through his body.

 _Oh I should have asked his name_ , was the last thought Yuuri had before sleep urged him down into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a hopeless mess. This anime has ruined me. I love it so much.
> 
> No extra music notes, but I will say: I had to go back in time and look up popular songs from 2007 and I forgot how much of a guilty pleasure _Shut Up and Drive_ is for me. If you watch the link, focus on the guy on the far right. Wink wonk, holy shit inspiration tho.


	3. A Place Called Vertigo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who read this bit of brain goop I smeared on the internet! I am so encouraged that people have an interest in this fic. ; w ;

_I feel the want to play about with you, who you don't even know yourself_  
_I want to try loving your pain that doesn't disappear_  
_I've met your hand at the far edge of a few galaxies  
_ _How do I hold it without breaking it?_

 

 

Certainty. That was the word he’d used to describe himself at this point in his life. He could not contain his happiness, no matter if he was in front of reporters, on or off the ice. After working himself so hard, inundating himself with the art, he felt like he deserved this joy, truly. He didn’t have any compunctions regarding his behavior, for which he was certain Yakov was Displeased. Then again, Yakov was always Displeased, right up until he wasn’t.

The dreams he’d had as a child were starting thin out because _he was actually making them come true_. He was an Olympic Gold Medalist, for heaven’s sake. There weren’t words for the sensation of surety that permeated his being.

There was no such thing as low-key with Viktor Nikiforov. Or at least, that’s what he let people think. Admittedly, he did have a hard time keeping his enthusiasm in check, but that was simply who he was. Dark and brooding wasn’t his forte, and he had no interest in such emotions. That wasn’t what he felt on the ice after all. Such delight was to be shared, he always said, to himself as often as to the press.

Three months ago, he would have easily said he was the most satisfied human being on the planet.

Two months ago he had been linked a YouTube video that quickly went private for several weeks before popping back up into public view, and Viktor’s certainty…wobbled. Just a bit.

He wasn’t used to the feeling. He especially wasn’t used to being in awe of another skater. There were idols, of course, but they had always felt more like goal posts than anything else. He greatly admired his coach and all of his teachers, who had carried him so far. As far as competition went, he was thrilled that he could compete with the best of his sport, and playfully indulged in gentle rivalries when he could.

This was different.

The message on he’d received on Twitter had of course been from Christophe. _‘Est-ce un hommage? C'est beau, eh @v-nikiforov?_ ’

The linked video itself gave no name to the skater, simply called ‘シェヘラザード - フィギュアスケート練習’ which he roughly (Google) translated to “Scheherazade - Figure Skating Practice.’ The quality wasn’t altogether great. He could see Japanese characters on the walls and signs around the rink, but that helped very little. It didn’t matter then, of course. Viktor’s eyes followed the young man on the ice regardless, and felt his eyes widen when he recognized some of the choreography.

It wasn’t an exact replica, but Viktor knew his routine when he saw it. He had won gold with it after all.

He was expecting to feel flattery, perhaps tinged with genial amusement. Instead, Viktor felt a pang of surprise. A deep well of admiration sprung up in him as he watched the shaky recording again. And again. It wasn’t until the eighth or tenth iteration that he realized what was happening.

The boy on the ice moved in perfect accordance to the rhythm, his steps so precise it was an envy. The notion that the music playing was there to accompany _him_ , and not the other way around, wormed its way into Viktor’s mind. Every spin, every swerve, served to express. Watching it on mute had only furthered his suspicions. Seeing the boy bend, pressing elegance before technical perfection, made him hear the sweeping wave of strings and wind instruments as if he had a direct line to the music; the mystery skater created all of this emotion on his own.

A part of him noted the small technical failings, and the under-rotated jumps. There was work to be done there, sure. Various balance issues were few and far between, and they could be perfected with practice. Another part of him was five years old again, eyes big and face flushed at the rink near his hometown, watching a couple spinning together on the ice, seeing them move to music only they could hear.

It was alarming, at first.

Of course he immediately reached out to Christophe with far too many emojis to be healthy, asking if he knew the boy. Apparently he wasn’t the first. Most of the comments on the video were in Japanese, and the few he could read in English were from Japanese ex-pats, wondering why on earth this unknown prodigy wasn’t competing for Japan. So many exclamation points. Per Christophe, the hunt was on to figure out who this was, and yes, calm down, he’d let Viktor know if he found out anything.

Enamored was inching in to take Certainty’s place.

While he pined hopelessly (Christophe’s phrase, not his own) over someone who would hopefully be competition (though fuzzy, the boy in the video seemed young enough to still skate in Junior Worlds, but Viktor was impatient as hell), other news intervened in his life.

 

_"You’re going to America? Why?”_

_“Everyone I train is coming with me,” Yakov muttered, very obviously not wanting to talk about this for much longer. “I have a promise to keep.”_

_“You mean you forgot about a professional contract? You? Really?” Viktor couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice. Chuckling, he shook his head. “I am wounded – you reprimand me so often for doing the exact same thing.”_

_“I did not forget!” Yakov muttered a few curses under his breath for a moment before he continued. “I’m upholding a favor. But there isn’t a chance in hell I’ll let any of you slack off.”_

_In truth, most of the Russian skaters under Yakov’s tutelage were terrified of slacking off, to the point that only Viktor dared to do so. Little Yuri did it just to piss off Yakov, which only made Viktor amused. Such high amounts of vitriol from such a tiny person._

_“Of course,” Viktor murmured, eyes half-lidded, mind elsewhere. The skater from the video plagued his thoughts even then._

 

There was leniency since he’d recently won Russia bragging rights for at least a year (and the Olympics interrupted qualifiers he would have still had to place in) but he and Yakov had decided (or rather, he’d pestered and insisted to Yakov so much that his coach had broken down) to take the rest of the year to work on _stunning_ new programs for next year’s Grand Prix.

Viktor insisted they were going to be stunning at least. Usually his words held true.

He had been tickled by inspiration, or so he said to journalists who asked. Muse-without-a-name aside, he set to work on creating his new routines for next year, his labor continuing on the plane ride over. Yakov had been aware of the figure skating camp that would be sharing their hotel for a month, but he _helpfully_ left Viktor unawares – thus leaving himself open to being mobbed for photos and autographs not long after he had found a formerly quiet spot at the bar. Such revenge was a small price to pay for the remaining year to include nothing but perfecting himself. And hopefully figuring out his tasty new mystery. Viktor was not often mystified. He liked the feeling.

Often, Viktor finds, the universe likes being on his side. It hadn’t been said that he was _lucky_ for the medals he had won, no. But there had been many impossible, perfect opportunities he dared not miss over the course of his life; Viktor grabbed life by the horns, so to speak. (He so did enjoy that American idiom).

Then again, sometimes the universe messed with him just like everyone else.

He didn’t have to be of any sexual orientation to find the boy who’d crashed into him cute. And while he often used the word cute to describe, say, Makkachin or Little Yuri (because he might never stop calling the blonde firecracker by that full title), he didn’t often find use for it on other grown people. But there it was: cute. Big cherry-brown eyes and dark fluffy hair on a round face that belied youth more than an excess of weight, though regardless it seemed to promise someone soft and yielding underneath. Perhaps. Looks could be deceiving.

Also, his cute new friend was blind. So very blind. Viktor studied the younger man’s face as best he could, but there was the unsettling feeling that he was missing something important. Regardless; he helped first and pondered later. Someone who was dressed like they were coming back from dance lessons (with those hair clips and the little tuft tied up in the back and those leg warmers a _nd those legs_ ), who was also staying here was likely apart of the summer camp Yakov hadn’t told him about. The party in the lounge had been waiting for him, yet _shockingly_ he felt no inclination to hear people talk about him like he wasn’t even in the room. Besides - anyone who started with dance practice before the real work began seemed like more interesting company.

So instead, he helped this shy stranger back to his room and managed to catch himself staring every few minutes. Viktor didn’t often have this much trouble cracking open another human to pry a few words of conversation, but he found himself distracted by a tug of déjà vu - as much as this boy’s crippling inhibition was to be the death of him (as it turned out he _had no idea how much_ ).

Viktor was a talented people reader but even he was unsure as to what the other boy was thinking. That didn’t matter too much, since Viktor, hesitant if his current ward didn’t know who his aid was or simply couldn’t recognize him without those glasses he fidgeted with, enjoyed the small talk regardless.

It was only after they parted, only after a few fingers of whiskey, and only after Viktor lay propped up in the thick comforter of his bed, watching the video he was not obsessed with, that things slowly clicked together. He sat up, abrupt and urgent, sliding the streaming bar backward, watching the screen with intent.

When the mystery skater flew by close enough to the camera, he pressed pause. The distance was short enough to make out eyes and mouth, though little else. Was it his imagination, or had he just seen the same face on the boy across the hall?

He definitely didn’t want to be one of those ignoramuses that couldn’t tell other ethnicities apart from each other, so he swallowed his first assumption like a bitter pill. What were the odds, after all?

And yet.

It was the same youthful curve of cheek, dark eyes and hair, the ratio of nose to lips, even the shirt looked similar (though he admitted it was far more likely for two strangers to buy the same shirt than share the same features). What really carved doubt out of his heart was not appearance, but demeanor. The skater from the video had a calm confidence that seemed totally unlike the small bundle of nerves he’d escorted from the lobby.

Knowing the odds were against him didn’t seem to rein in Viktor’s growing excitement. Odds were always against him; yet he won and succeeded regardless.

In the end, he decided the only way to know for sure was to see his neighbor skate in person. If they skated at all. Viktor realized he was a little high off of hope here, but he didn’t seem to feel burdened by the potential for gross disappointment.

 _I really should have offered my name_. If only to exchange it for another.

Sleep came far too late, and he woke far too early. The difference in time zones had stopped truly bothering him after his first two skating seasons, and now it only took a short while to adjust. Still didn’t seem to stop the first day or two from being horrendous.

Luckily for no one but himself, he was consistently bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. And apparently invested in his Investigation (as he was now more curious than was sane), because he was knocking on the door across the hall.

It was so strange to feel nervous now, about this, of all things. All the reminders of him being medaled professional skater seemed to slide off him, like so much water off a duck’s back. Noises sounded beyond the door in front of him before he heard a “ _Hai_ , _hai_ ,” that didn’t seem intended for anyone in particular. The door opened a crack, and a very ruffled Japanese face peeked out at him before sliding on a pair of now-clean glasses.

Viktor maintains the bright smile even as the boy before him stilled, the youthful face paling briefly as he made a choking noise. There was a look on his face that was more or less nature’s way of saying _please leave me alone I am the biggest lamest cactus do not engage_ and simultaneously the ever-recognizable fanboy flailing of _oh my god it’s really him_. The mental exuberance of such conflicting emotions turned the boy’s face a bright red, but the color wasn’t ugly against his pale skin. He made a noise that Viktor was certain stunned a few smaller animals.

For the first time in his life, he found that adorable.

…What was wrong with him.

“Good morning!” Viktor caroled, face made of glee.

The door slammed shut with a force that made the floor vibrate.

Internally, Viktor was a tiny bit fazed. Instead of running, however, he remained, his nervous energy being replaced by amusement.

 _Really quite blind_ , he noted, now very sure on that point.

A full minute passed before the door opened again, those same alarmed eyes peering out – as if maybe Viktor had been some kind of mirage. When the Russian didn’t vanish into thin air, he was fairly certain the boy squealed. The door remained unlocked this time however, so Viktor took advantage and held it open with the palm of his hand. “I guess you really can’t see without your glasses,” he iterated, warm and open, seemingly not bothered by this strange behavior. He had dealt with far worse from fans. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell. Oh, and properly introduce myself of course. I’m – ”

“Viktoru – Viktor Nikiforov!” came the high-octave response.

There was something about the way he had first pronounced Viktor’s name that made him feel warm.  “Yes,” he confirmed, instead of thinking about that odd sensation.

“I – I’m so sorry! For hitting – running into you – I – I’m not – I didn’t mean to,” the sentence finished haphazardly into a mumble, those expressive eyes so round and wide one could have assumed the boy was facing his imminent demise.

“It’s quite alright. You were obviously very tired. Did you just arrive yesterday?”

“Yes!” It’s not so much enthusiasm, but excited fear, if Viktor could call it that. Still, there’s a part of him that’s a tiny bit relieved. Personas of himself were available for dealing with fans, and he had access to several that would suit this situation. He was telling himself this, but Viktor found it hard-pressed to choose at all. How surprising.

There was a pause, and Viktor, trying helplessly not to collapse into good-natured laughter, tilted his head down, eyebrows raised slightly. “I won’t keep you,” he started, then shook his head as another idea hit him. He was playing this by ear and felt a wonderful sense of freedom in doing so. “I just wondered if you wanted to join me for breakfast?”

“Breakfast?!” the boy’s voice cracked, and Viktor smiled wider at the sound.

“Yes! I insist. There’s a lovely café around the corner from here. Do you like lattes at all? Tea perhaps?” Viktor swore he was trying to tamp down on his usual buoyancy, but at the sight of this red-faced doe of a human being he couldn’t help himself.

The boy sputtered, making half-words and sometimes muttering in Japanese, one hand running into his hair so that it pushed up at odd angles. Viktor was unaware of what kind of conflict there could be, so he plowed onward, confident as always.

“And…I suppose I should know your name before we share food together,” he let himself purr just a smidgen before feeling guilty for doing so. He had no idea how old the boy was in actuality, but he was obviously younger. He didn’t want any crossed signals. Or at least, not too many.

“Ka- Y- K…Yuuri,” he stammered, shifting pitch as he tried to breathe. “Katsuki, Yuuri.” There was a groan of embarrassment. “I – I mean, Yuuri Katsuki. Sorry.”

“Lovely,” Viktor decided, as if making sure the rest of the universe also knew how nice a name it was. Shared by two people he knew, from two different countries – how unique. He was also happy to see that Yuuri was at least 5% more collected than moments prior. He wanted to converse, after all. “Meet in the lobby? In an hour?”

Still stunned, Yuuri Katsuki nodded slowly.

“I look forward to it,” Viktor promised, and waved as he made his way back to his room.

Pretty sure that he had no idea what he was doing yet willing to go where the wind took him, Viktor carried all the confidence in the world with him as he left.

 

 

 

It had to be one of his recurring nightmares.

There was the one where he was accepting a gold medal, but he was stark naked, at his chubbiest, and didn’t notice until the last minute. That was a _classic_. Another had him meeting his idol and inspiration at some of his lowest moments, berating him for being weak with a knife-like smile. A few more were iterations of the latter, but it was always the same. He wasn’t good enough, he was a living, breathing flaw.

Only problem was, Yuuri was pretty sure he was awake.

That, and there had been a strange lack of snide remarks about his weight, skills, face, personality, and mental acuity. Anxiety-ridden as he was, he knew he wasn’t a horrible waste of space. It was just that his brain often liked to insist he was every so often. And sometimes he’d believe it more than not at all.

All of his insides coiled. The hot, stinging sensation he knew was prelude to ugly sobbing came next. Instead of letting it happen, he tried to reason with himself. Of _course_ he was embarrassed that he hadn’t recognized him, but it was far more startling to have _the_ _Viktor Nikiforov_ approach _him_ as if _Yuuri_ had been the one to leave a positive impression.

Hands clapped to his cheeks and he let his head thud against the now closed door, blush unwilling to dissipate. Reality insisted that 1) he had already engaged in polite, if not nervous small talk the night before when he couldn’t see who was _holding him by the arm oh god_ —

….2) Viktor had wanted to keep talking to him?

So, he hadn’t made a huge disaster of himself, despite all of those horrible noises he’d made when his hero had appeared at his doorstep. In his defense, he had thought, momentarily, that jetlag had caused him permanent brain damage and the image of Viktor Nikiforov smiling at him had been a result of such trauma.

He wasn’t calmer, no. But he wasn’t going to curl up and die either.

It was a fine line.

Instead of freezing in place, Yuuri decided, for once, to plow forward with frail optimism instead of his ever-present pessimism. Yes, he was as surprised as anyone else.

The rush of something new hit his heart hard, and he hurried to rearrange himself, aiming to be properly groomed instead of ‘it’s the wrong time zone and my brain doesn’t know what reality it is’ – he was fairly certain that was a real state of mind.

He had no idea why his idol and inspiration had inclination to want to talk, but Yuuri wasn’t missing this chance for the world.

 

 

Every day in Manhattan was a busy day, but the earlier in the morning it was, the more likely the city was to be a bit quieter. If you could hear the wind in the trees and bird song, it was a good time. Yuuri hadn’t been here but a day and he could already note the difference; he liked this version of New York better than the mechanical busyness of the afternoon. He wished Vicchan was here, so he could take him for a walk – the poodle loved new places and people, and helped Yuuri interact with other humans when words failed him.  He had a slight dependency on that dog, but at least it was a socially acceptable dependency. Probably.

The café around the corner had the name _Intelligentsia_ , and was run not out of a building, but instead of an old _Citroen_ truck. It seemed very pretentious, though still cozy, and it fit in almost exactly with the surrounding neighborhood. In fact, it was just inside the courtyard of the hotel.

Viktor Nikiforov was sitting at one of the tables alongside, now-short hair fluttering in the wind. He’d cut it the year before, shocking most of his fans. Yuuri himself had more wondered the ‘why’ and thought of a thousand technical issues and difficulties that came from skating with long hair. But he would be lying to himself if he hadn’t thought someone had made Viktor go through with it. Thankfully, he understood the need for privacy better than most. The man didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, and Yuuri was happy never knowing.

The teen ran his hand through his hair once more, feeling its longer length and wondering why he didn’t just get it trimmed back down. Stalling for time, he reminded himself. That’s what he was doing.

Eventually, with his heart set to rabbit, Yuuri waved, probably looking ill with nervousness.

“Oh Yuuri!”

In the beginning, it had been all about Viktor’s movements on the ice. Yuuri memorized, practiced, and choreographed with Viktor in mind, and it wasn’t even a question as to why. No one else could make figure skating look so effortless, he thought. Why not invest in the one style that would guarantee elegance? True, he himself had started with ballet, but Viktor captivated in harsher climates – and Yuuri wanted to do the same, on some level.

Then it was a small, but vital appreciation in how this living legend handled his press, his fans, his work – everything. Yuuri would never have to understand how Viktor managed, but he appreciated seeing someone who had climbed so high feel so very devoted in the legacy of the sport by making sure it was popularized. It had worked, after all; Yuuri had never been more invested in anything in his life, and he wouldn’t have been without Viktor Nikiforov.

“S-sorry about earlier.”

“It’s no problem, don’t worry,” were the kind tones of someone who meant what they said.

“I just, didn’t expect,” Yuuri murmured. “Thank you.” If he could hunch in on himself further, he would have been a hedgehog. Actually, that was a spirit animal if he’d ever heard of one….

Viktor’s smile was like a sunbeam, cutting through the fog of Yuuri’s roiling concerns. “I’m thrilled to meet aspiring figure skaters any day of the week. I didn’t see anyone else coming back from dance practice. You must be very dedicated.”

At this, Yuuri turned his head up, surprise evident in his widening eyes. “Ah? Ah, yes. I mean, I try,” he tried to say this with gratitude and wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

“Not everyone takes dance before they learn to skate, did you know that?” Viktor continued, his expression melting from professionally sunny to genuine warmth. “I feel it’s impossible to convey emotion on the ice without it, don’t you?”

 _Oh god he’s asking my opinion_. “I – I um,” Yuuri tried to find his footing, and was a little surprised to have stepping stones laid out by none other than the man sitting across from him. It was unusual – it wasn’t what he was expecting. It was … comfortable. “I agree.” Struggling for a moment, he felt a compulsion to elaborate. “I actually started with ballet,” he managed in a small voice.

“Really! Fantastic,” Viktor enthused, gesticulating with his arms, spreading them open. “If only everyone did the same thing,” he lamented, mock-sorrow straining against his amusement.

Yuuri wasn’t capable of handling compliments from even his family; this amount of good-will was going to give him an aneurysm.

“If you’ll allow me to inquire,” Viktor spoke into Yuuri’s paralyzed silence, not sounding offended by his inability to talk like a normal human. “Is this your first time to New York?”

“First time anywhere,” Yuuri affirmed, mumbling into the table. He was so sure he was giving a terrible impression, and yet Viktor hadn’t yet stormed off or insulted him (which would have been more or less the confirmation he needed to know he was having a very involved nightmare), so, Yuuri kept trying to be better. “I – I’ve been to Tokyo and Kyoto for some summer trips, but, I’ve never left Japan before.”

“That’s a big first step, all the way out here,” Viktor whistled. “Might I ask, was it your coach’s decision?”

And suddenly, Yuuri realized – or at least remembered – one of his greatest doubts. Viktor had assumed Yuuri was in the professional circuit, or trying to be, like the rest of the camp’s roster (or at least the majority of them). It was advertised as a professional training camp, and there was no technicality for people who didn’t want to go into it professionally but still wanted to train like someone who was – so his support group hadn’t thought twice.

Now he was realizing how strange it might sound. The cramping of his limbs as they refused to de-stress made him wince. “I don’t, um, have one.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to presume,” Viktor raised both eyebrows. “Are you looking for one?”

“Mn,” Yuuri tentatively shook his head. “I – I trained with my ballet instructor,” he explained. “But …I mostly learned on my own until now.” He was trying to avoid the subject of why he wasn’t. “I have a few advanced steps down, but I wanted to learn more.”

“Olympic-level training doesn’t faze you?” Viktor’s voice teased, and Yuuri’s spine straightened in fear.

“No! I mean – yes! It – I’ve never – it’s very new but – I mean.”

His host laughed. Yuuri tried not to compare the sound to bells. “I admire that drive! You’re not worried it’ll be too much for you?”

“I – I am but, I – my family,” his face was busy suppressing his embarrassment to no avail. He hadn’t wanted to come off as arrogant! “My family gave me this as a graduation present; they worked so hard to help me and I – I didn’t want to disappoint them.”

There was a beat of silence, and Viktor breathed, and it was difficult not to look at him when he did so. “Wow. Your family sounds amazing.”

If there was ever a key to Yuuri’s heart, its formations were forged in the admiration of the same people he admired. He smiled for the first time in Viktor’s presence, a soft, unsure thing that seemed to ask for protection.

Viktor’s face went oddly blank before he grinned again, the small stutter slipping by unnoticed. “I’d love to order something for you. Do you like espresso?”

Oddly enough, as the two sat together, idle chatter and skating talk mixing as one, they learned a little more about each other. For one thing, Yuuri had a death wish via caffeine.

“I’ve always taken it black, I don’t like a lot of sugar in it.”

“ _You’re drinking four shots of espresso and you’re not even twitching_.”

And Viktor’s love of sweets would one day give him diabetes.

“How do you live without chocolate if you like it so much?” Viktor’s only response was a long groan of despair.

Yuuri did not know if he could dare to expect any one thing from Viktor. His fans all had similar fantasies of meeting him for real, and now that Yuuri was doing just that, he was glad he’d tried not to think about such a thing on his own. They say one should never meet their heroes, but he was starting to become glad that he did. As always, the man never failed to surprise him.

They bonded over dogs, and Yuuri had the great displeasure of having to explain Vicchan’s name to the inspiration behind it, burying his head in his arms when Viktor couldn’t keep the smile off his face or the giggling out of his voice.

Surreal didn’t begin to cover it, thought Yuuri to himself.

Their conversation was interrupted with a shout that made Yuuri nearly vibrate out of his chair. “ _VITYA_.”

“Ah, Yakov! This is my coach, though you probably know that already,” was Viktor’s very casual response to be being yelled at, before he launched into gleeful Russian. An angry man in dark clothes and a black hat was stomping up to them, looking as if he stopped short of grabbing Viktor by the collar and dragging him away.

“I do not care – you are incredibly late for practice,” Yakov’s growl was in English. He glanced once at Yuuri, which nearly made the Japanese boy squeak. It didn’t, thank goodness. “I don’t care why.”

“Ah, Yuuri,” his name trotted out in Viktor’s voice was still so strange. “Would you like to join us?”

It took him several seconds to process the request. “Wh- what?!” he yelped. “No – I couldn’t – I – ”

“ _Vitya_ ,” Yakov warned, but his eyes darted between the two suspiciously. “He is very likely just as busy and has not the _time_ for your whims.”

“He’s with the skating camp! Your orientation happens tomorrow, yes?”

Yuuri, again, seemed too stunned to respond immediately. “Ah – y-yes, but – ”

“Then you have some time to spare!”

“ ** _Vitya_**.”

“W-wait, I don’t want to intrude. Your time at the rink is yours,” Yuuri blurted out, worried that the older man would start yelling again and give him a heart attack.

Viktor reached out towards him. Though Yuuri wasn’t sure what he was doing at first he slowly began to turn bright red, as one of his hands was in the process of being held. “I would love to see you skate, you seem like such a thoughtful person – I want to know what you’re like on the ice,” were the words of Viktor’s last plea, his expressive eyes turning Yuuri into a pile of goo (and therefore thankfully unable to see the look of exasperation and surprise on Yakov’s face).

Unable to do much else, all Yuuri could manage was a very strangled: “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Also do you know how hard it is to remember this fic starts in 2007, and therefore the iPhone had just come out? Man I had to remember what apps were even available. (Literally Youtube, Facebook, and Twitter (HAD JUST HAPPENED) ... hashtags were barely even). #whatdoespichitevendowithoutinstagram
> 
> The Sky Rink mentioned is a real place. I've made an amalgam of their programs into a summer camp. They are a high class joint, seriously.
> 
>  ***Yuuri's Modded Victor-Olympic-Free-Skate Music:**  
> [Scheherazade, Op. 35: III. The Young Prince and the Young Princess (from 6:50s onward) / Scottish National Orchestra recording; 1989](https://youtu.be/kjvnTSukrJo?t=410)  
>  III. The Young Prince and Princess  
> One of the stories in The Arabian Nights is the tale of the young prince and princess who live in different kingdoms and who both refuse ever to marry. Two interfering genies decide to put them in the same bed for one night, and then whisk them away before they have even been introduced. The two teenagers instantly fall in love, but are unable to find each other again and fall ill. Eventually, as in all good fairy stories, they meet and marry, and everyone lives happily ever after. In Rimsky-Korsakov’s version, the theme of the young prince is announced by the violins and the princess by a dance-like melody on the solo clarinet.


End file.
